The wind keeps her awake.
She leaves Threepio on at night now, just to have the comfort of familiar sounds. The droid is puttering somewhere in the kitchen, his unfinished body an awkward marriage of creaking metal and visible wires, a testament to the suddenness with which their lives were interrupted.
Shmi feels she can relate: in Anakin's absence she feels torn open, everything aching and exposed.
Before, she could drown out the darkness with Anakin, muffling the wind with her own mother's lullabies, her fingers carding through sandy hair.
Now only the wind sings at night, and only her heart accompanies it.
Shmi sighs and collects herself, then rises to head for the kitchen. She cannot sing to Anakin again. Perhaps his creation will listen.